


The Princess Experiment

by 221b_hound



Series: Princess for a Day [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Daddy John, Daddy Kink, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, princess sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John wakes up and finds Sherlock still wearing the pink princess outfit from last night's case, he teases with 'Good morning Princess'. Sherlock banters back with 'Hello Daddy'. But it's not quite teasing, and it's not quite banter, and instead they spend a few hours experimenting with this sudden, unexpected interest in a little make-believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Princess Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a new series where I'll be playing with a lot of different fandoms. In each story, one of the characters will be the 'princess for a day' - though what that might mean will depend on the pairing and universe. Planned fandoms include Cabin Pressure and Star Wars as well as stand-alone Sherlock stories and ones set in various of my AUs (including Captains of Industry).

 

There were perfectly valid reasons why Sherlock had spent the night dressed in a little pink princess frock and sweet little Mary Jane shoes, also pink.

It was all to do with a case – obviously – and the designer’s idea to have tall, slender men model adult-size versions of his Princess Collection. It also had something to do with a smuggling operation – real diamonds being sewn into the bodices and cute little crowns of the outfits instead of the rhinestones. The ending of the case included Sherlock catwalking, leaping off the catwalk in pursuit of a suspect, losing him in the backstreets, having to stake out the man’s lock-up in the middle of the night while in the princess frock and John’s coat around his shoulders, and finally apprehending the sod at 4am in a skanky laneway behind a nightclub.

By 5am, Sherlock and John were back in Baker Street and had fallen into bed without having the energy to change clothes or even undress.

Which is all simply to say that when John woke up shoeless in his jeans and button-up, the discomfort was immediately offset by looking across at the sleeping beauty beside him, adorable and sweet by the midmorning light that filtered through their curtains.

John gazed at his lovely bedmate for a while: at Sherlock’s tousled hair which was still sprinkled in rainbow glitter (held on with hair gel) and his faintly rouged cheeks and lips. John gazed, soft-eyed and fond, at the laced bodice with its low, square neck that highlighted Sherlock’s throat. It ruched at the shoulders, a gathering of satiny pink that was echoed at the waist before a little puff of faux satin and tulle sparkling with rhinestones completed the darling little dress. For goodness’ sake, Sherlock even still wore the pink Mary Janes with the scalloped edges and the little pink bows on his feet (and hadn’t they been a bugger to find in his size?).

Sherlock was curled on the bed, his knees bent, his hands clasped and folded in front of his lips, and he looked positively angelic. Not an adjective John would normally have applied to Sherlock, regardless of how much John adored him.

Sherlock stirred. His eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened. Still muzzy with sleep, he looked at John with a certain amount of just-awake purity, with nothing to say; as if looking at John sharing his bed made him unaccountably happy.

“Who’s my beautiful little Princess?” said John, and perhaps he’d meant to be teasing or joking, but it came out gentle and doting.

Sherlock slow-blinked, the words sinking into his head like pearls through honey. Then he smiled, like blissful innocence, and said, “Me. Daddy.”

Afterwards, Sherlock could never decide where the ‘Daddy’ had come from. It was in part a teasing joke in response to _Princess_. But not all of it, no. Sherlock knew he was dressed in the frilly pink things, so soft on his skin. He knew John was looking at him like he was something precious. It had just seemed the _mot juste_. The right word for that perfect moment. It wasn’t anything they’d done before or talked about, although their personal life wasn’t lacking in adventure.

But here was ‘my little Princess’ and there was ‘Daddy’ and for a second, they regarded each other, tender and breathless, waiting to see what might happen next.

What happened was that John’s blue eyes grew luminescent and he said in a low, loving voice, “Yes you are. My beautiful princess. My darling joy.”

Sherlock gasped a little at the unexpectedness of that, and how it caught right at his heart. He sighed. All involuntary, his mouth pursed ever-so-faintly in a sweet moue and he said, his voice as deep as always, but a whisper: “I love you. Daddy.” A faint hesitation still, so he said it again, still whispering but more confidently. “Daddy.”

John pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips and another to his nose, and a third to his forehead, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his hand. The first action covered a flushed but pleased confusion. By the third, he had committed to pushing this a little further.

“Who does Daddy love?”

“His Princess,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, he does. I do.” John’s fingertips rested under Sherlock’s jaw and his thumb smoothed across Sherlock’s faintly rouged cheek.

Running still on instinct and a delicate kind of caution, John rose from the bed and held his hand out to his little Princess.

“Breakfast time, Princess.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and let John help him up. John removed his rumpled shirt, but remained in jeans, socks and vest. Then he brushed his hands over Sherlock’s pink dress, resettling the puff of the skirt and the sit of the bodice.

“Look at you,” said John approvingly, “Pretty as a picture.”

Sherlock dropped his head and looked coyly at John through his lashes.

John patted the tulle over Sherlock’s bottom, then took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the kitchen.

“Sit there, Princess,” he said, pulling out a chair. Sherlock held his skirt and sat, half-ladylike, half-gawky, like a dear little Princess indeed. He smoothed his hands over his stomach and the skirt and sat with his big hands folded together and pressed between his knees. He bit his lip and looked to John.

“I know what you like,” said John like the most indulgent adult in the world. “You like soldiers, don’t you?”

That was a game they’d played before, very much hard edges and giving orders and nothing like this sudden, dainty make-believe

“Yes, Daddy,” said Sherlock, in his deep murmur, “Very much.”

John fussed a moment with the eggs before putting them on to boil – Sherlock deliberately didn’t watch, wanting a surprise. Instead, he concentrated on the sensation of the fabric on his skin. Satin and tulle against his torso and legs and backside; the feeling of the strange shoes on his feet. He concentrated on the strange sensation of feeling delicate, and pampered.

John made toast with butter, which he cut into soldiers, and then he put the cooked eggs into two egg cups and presented them to Sherlock.

The eggs had roughly drawn faces on them in black marker. One had round eyes with spikey eyelashes, bow lips and a crown. The other had an eyepatch, a moustache and a scar on its cheek.

“The pirate or the princess, sweetie?”

Sherlock pointed shyly at the pirate, then changed his mind and pointed at the princess.

“You sure, Princess?”

Sherlock nodded.

John carefully sliced the crown from Princess Egg and handed Sherlock a teaspoon and the soldiers. But he didn’t eat the pirate egg – only watched Sherlock, chin propped on the heel of his hand.

Sherlock demonstrated studiously exquisite manners as he dipped his toast in the yolk and then slowly sucked the egg from the bread. When yolk stuck to his bottom lip, John rubbed his thumb across Sherlock’s mouth and then pressed his thumb between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened his mouth just enough for John to slip his thumb inside, and suckled.

“My beautiful princess,” said John, voice hitching.

Sherlock dipped fresh toast into his egg and offered it to John. “Take a bite, Daddy.” He bit his lower lip. “Please,” he added.

John took a bite and ate the toast.

Sherlock took a bite, dipped the toast and offered it again to John.

“Take a bite, Daddy,” he said again. “Pleathe.”

John took the rest of the toast in his teeth, up close to Sherlock’s fingers; sucked on Sherlock’s fingertips to take the whole thing. Held Sherlock’s hand, swallowed the toast, and then licked Sherlock’s fingers free of crumbs.

The whole time, they never stopped staring into each other’s eyes.

“Daddy,” said Sherlock after a long, charged moment. “Will you tell me a thtory?”

John held his hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and John led him to the sofa. Sherlock curled up on it with his head in John’s lap, knees poking out from the fluffy pink skirt.

He gazed adoringly up at John while John told him about the very smart and beautiful princess who was the cleverest person in the whole realm. The princess was so smart and beautiful that a weary knight, returning home from a faraway war, saw the Princess battling a dragon and offered his help. The knight was very honoured that the princess thought he would be a great help, and they became the very best of friends and slew dragons together.

By the end of the story, John was patting Sherlock’s bottom through the layers of the skirt. John was amazed at Sherlock’s unexpected, dozy compliance. John had been caressing Sherlock’s glittery hair, until Sherlock reached for John’s hand and drew it down. Now he was sucking idly on John’s knuckles, half asleep and trustingly docile.

Sherlock rubbed his stubbled cheek up and down from time to time, a scant friction against John’s crotch. John’s cock swelled, but without urgency. A warm and pleasant buzz. Anticipation.

“You want a song, Princess?”

“Mm-hmm.” Almost inaudible. “Pleathe, Daddy.”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” sang John, still patting Sherlock’s bottom, “How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high. Like a diamond in the sky…”

Sherlock had begun to wave his hands sleepily in front of his face, fingers in lazy sparkle-motion, twinkling like a little star. “Twinkle, twinkle, little thtar…” he sang in a small voice.

Then he laughed. A breathy thing. He turned his face and rubbed it in John’s lap. He giggled. Then he blinked up at John. “Drink?”

“You want a drink, Princess?”

“Pleathe.”

John took a few deep breaths, then patted Sherlock’s bottom again. “Upsy-daisy then, Princess. Let Daddy get up.”

John had to help Sherlock sit up. He led Sherlock by the hand back to the kitchen and poured a small cup of milk (last of it, none left for the tea; as if John had any fucks to give about tea right now.)

Sherlock sat at his chair, sipped the milk, and looked at John with huge, wondering eyes.

“Are you my knight, Daddy?”

“Yes I am, Princess.”

“Are we betht friendth, Daddy?”

“The very bestest, Princess.”

“Will you alwayth thlay dragonth with me?”

“With you and for you, my beautiful Princess.” John brushed a curl from Sherlock’s forehead and then wrapped the curl around his finger so he could pull it carefully out and watch it spring back. “You’re the smartest and cleverest and most beautiful Princess a knight could wish for, and I love you very, very much.”

Sherlock swallowed and his deep voice was rough when he replied, “I love you. You’re the best… the betht… betht friend. Betht knight.” He bit his lip and his pale eyes were bright with words unsaid. “John,” said Sherlock, trying to cram all the words into that one.

Their surprise make-believe almost stopped, but then Sherlock smiled with something naughty under the sweetness, and he said: “Daddy. Can we play a game?”

“Of course we can, Princess,” said John, when he could make himself speak again.

Sherlock took John’s hand and dragged him back to the living room, cutely impatient, and in front of the sofa he touched John’s nose.

“Nothe!” he declared. He took John’s his finger made it tap his own nose. “Come on, Daddy.”

“Nose,” said John, not quite sure of the rules.

Sherlock beamed. He touched John’s chin. “Chin!”

He brought John’s hand down to tap his princess chin.

“Chin,” said John, and he grinned.

Tap. “Shoulder.”

Tap (unguided now). “Shoulder.”

“Elbow.”

“Elbow.”

“THternum.”

“Sternum. That’s a big word, Princess.”

“I know lotth of big people words. I play big people gameth too, Daddy.”

“Show me, Princess.”

“Nipple,” said Sherlock, brushing his fingers over John’s right nipple under the vest.

“Nipple,” echoed John, brushing his fingers over Sherlock’s right nipple under the bodice of the dress.

“Writht.”

“Wrist.”

“Hip.”

“Hip.”

“Knee.”

“Knee.”

“Thigh…”

And John sighed at the touch of Sherlock’s fingers caressing the inside of his legs, under his balls.

“Thigh,” murmured John, slipping his hand underneath Sherlock’s puffy frock, against the bare skin of his inner thigh and under the light cotton of his pants.

“Penith.” Sherlock cupped John through his jeans and pressed gently with the heel of his hand.

John rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s cock, hidden beneath the dress, and squeezed very softly. “Penis. You pretty thing.”

Sherlock breathed heavily for a moment while John palmed him and eventually he said, “I want to thit in your lap, Daddy.”

John gave his princess another little squeeze. He unfastened his jeans, shoved them and his underwear down to his knees, and sat on the sofa. He tugged up his vest, and sat there, half bare, cock jutting up thick and flushed.

“Give Daddy a cuddle, Princess,” he said, holding out his arms.

Sherlock climbed onto John’s lap, knees either side of John’s hips. Still in his pink Mary Jane shoes and his pretty dress and his pants.

He pulled the skirt up to his hips so that John could see – a stiff cock, a _princess_ cock, dark pink, the crown of it thickly visible at the top of Sherlock’s ever-so-pink cotton panties (he never did things by halves, oh no).

“Thee?” said Sherlock, holding the skirt up high with both hands and looking down at both their cocks. “My penith ith very happy you’re my Daddy.”

“And mine is very happy you’re my Princess.”

Sherlock shoved the volume of skirting tightly backwards over his waist and hips and scooted forward so that he could rub his trapped cock against John’s erection.

“Cuddle me Daddy,” whispered Sherlock hoarsely, so John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, kissing Sherlock’s throat and shoulders, while Sherlock clung to John and wriggled and frotted urgently against him.

“Say… thay it,” Sherlock urged, “Daddy, thay it. Call me Printhceth. Pleathe.”

“Oh my Princess,” moaned John, in between kisses and nuzzles and sucking on the pale skin, “My pretty princess, my beautiful princess, so beautiful, my little princess, god, yes…”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” chanted Sherlock, until John, half mad with not-quite-enough friction, held Sherlock tight and shifted them, so that Sherlock was on his back on the sofa and John kneeled between his legs. He pulled Sherlock’s panties off and threw them across the room. Next moment he was kissing and sucking Sherlock’s prick, and then slotted between Sherlock’s legs again and thrusting. Their skin was hot and slicker by the moment, slippery with pre-come and perspiration.

“Fuck,” John muttered, “Oh, Fuck. Sh…”

“Pleathe, Daddy…”

“Princess. Princess. Oh god.”

“More Daddy. More more more. Daddy. Pleathe. Make me thticky. Make me thticky. Pleathe Daddy.”

“My princess, my pretty princess, you’re so perfect, my perfect little princess, oh, Christ…”

John came, body juddering with the intense pleasure of it, and he kept rutting and thrusting and saying in a rough and ragged voice, “Come on, Princess. Come on my pretty princess. Make a sticky mess for Daddy…”

And Sherlock, with a long, moaning cry, made a very sticky mess for John.

They clung to each other, each heaving for breath, each boneless and sated. John could feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin, and knew that Sherlock could feel John’s own, when John wasn’t peppering Sherlock’s face and neck with dazed and smearing kisses.

They may have dozed a little while after that, though eventually John helped his princess to the bathroom and to strip.

Once the frock was in the hamper with John’s clothes, Mary Janes out in the hall, Daddy and the Princess were gone. John and Sherlock stood together in the shower, washing each other. John helped lather shampoo into Sherlock’s still glittery hair.

“So,” said John as he helped to rinse away the sparkling foam, “Um. The dress…?”

“I’m keeping it,” said Sherlock, “And the shoes. I may need new knickers.”

“And a tiara.” John finger-combed conditioner through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock kissed John in agreement. Then he pressed his lips to John’s ear and rumbled, “Since I already have a sceptre.”

The Princess and the Daddy Knight giggled like well sated idiots.

And a week later, John bought Sherlock a sparkly pink tiara.

**Author's Note:**

> I've read some charming - and charmingly naughty - Daddy kink fics in the Sherlock fandom. I thought I'd see if I could write one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'The Princess Experiment by 221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953413) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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